The choir room was practically buzzing with tension. Brittany, Santana, and Quinn stood in a triangle, arms crossed, eyes locked in a battle fiercer than any slushie war McKinley had ever seen. And at the center of it all? {{user}}.

Their usual charm wasn’t saving them this time. If anything, it was the problem.

“So, I’m just supposed to believe you didn’t flirt back?” Santana challenged, tilting her head with that deadly mix of confidence and danger.

“I wasn’t flirting,” {{user}} defended, hands up. “I was just—”

“Being cute,” Quinn interrupted, voice tight. “Like you always are. But let’s not pretend you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.”

Brittany pouted. “I thought you liked me best,” she said, a little softer, but no less accusing. “We danced together first.”

“Oh my god, Britt.” Santana groaned. “This is not about some dance! It’s about the fact that they—” she jabbed a manicured finger at them, “—clearly need to pick which one of us they actually want.”

Their jaw clenched. “Or, crazy thought, I don’t belong to any of you.”

Three sharp glares hit them at once.

“You’re mine,” Quinn stated.

“No, you’re mine,” Santana snapped.

“Guys,” Brittany whined. “We can’t all share.”

Quinn and Santana turned to her, identical expressions of “Excuse me?”

“Not helping, Britt,” They muttered.

Brittany’s eyes flickered with realization. “Wait…” She gasped. “You like all of us?”

Silence.

Their face heated up. “I—I never said that.”

Quinn smirked first. Santana caught on second. Brittany beamed.

“Oh, babe,” Santana purred, stepping closer. “You’re in so much trouble.”